


Death and Other Misunderstandings

by Thunderhel



Series: Courting a King [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6037198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderhel/pseuds/Thunderhel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you often think fondly of me when I am not in your presence?”</p><p>Bard had seen much loss in his life, and many more hardships. He had suffered much and endured many trials. He had faced down a great dragon as it burned his home. This conversation with Thranduil, still, was one of the worst things that had ever happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death and Other Misunderstandings

**Author's Note:**

> Completely unedited, so hit me up when you find the inevitable 5000 mistakes.

Below where Bard stood, feeling impossibly tall along the ruins of what was once a watch tower, men were working tirelessly to rebuild the city of Dale. Even from his elevated position he could see the toil the labor was taking on the men below, could see the steam of their breath and the determination that was warring against exhaustion as they worked to reclaim what had once belonged to their ancestors. The sting of the wind against his face did nothing to diminish the fire he felt in his chest; the pride and heartache at watching his people work together to build a new city. A new life. A new-

“When you die, I will mourn you.” 

The statement, while not entirely shocking in its inappropriate solemnity, still caused Bard to glance up from where he had been so intently focusing. “Sorry?” Bard cocked his head as he stared at the elf beside him, doing his best to walk the line between annoyed confusion and respect. It was a balancing act he had mastered the art of in his months of dealing with the unpredictable king. 

Beside him, Thranduil stood tall and straight, his hands clasped behind his back and chin held high, a direct contrast to Bard’s casual slump against the wall. At the start of their neighborly relationship, Bard had tried to copy the Elvenking’s proud stance, try to make sure that the elves knew that the men, while not as old or as well trained, were to be seen as a legitimate kingdom to be respected and deserving of the elves’ friendship. That mentality had lasted less than two weeks before the real problems facing Dale and its people caused Bard’s shoulders to slump hard enough that no matter of pride could bring them back up again. He worked day and night, facing one problem after another in a barrage that he was certain would not let up until the day he was laid to rest. What Thranduil thought of his posture had fallen so far down on the list of things he cared about it wasn’t really a concern at all anymore. He could never prove it, and the proud Elvenking’s posture never once shifted, but Bard was fairly certain the first day he leaned against a pillar for support was the first day Thranduil seemed to begin to take him seriously. 

All of this of course had time to make its run through Bard’s head. Thranduil seemed intent to stretch out all of his conversations in order to make them take up as much of his infinite time left in this realm as possible. Bard’s patience of the elves had yet to wane, and he waited with his brow creased and calloused hands resting on the stone ledge as he stared at the side of the other king’s face. One eyebrow raised ever so slightly, Thranduil turned his eyes to Bard, who found himself proud that he could now meet that stare directly with only the smallest drop of his stomach. 

“I said, when you die, I shall mourn you.”

Bard had not really expected anything much more clear from the Elvenking, and had to remind himself of that quietly as he inhaled deeply through his nose. The cold burning through his lungs grounded him as he tried once more. 

“I…heard you, my Lord. I am afraid what I meant was I didn’t understand.”

Thranduil always seemed to Bard to be made of stone, carved straight from something softer than marble but less likely to break. His mouth could move and his eyes could wander, but his jaw was held straight, cheekbones arched and the limited expressions he chose to show to the world shifted easily and subtly with only the faintest changes. The look he gave Bard was not one of the predesigned expressions the new king of Dale had grown accustom to. Halfway between annoyance and something Bard hadn’t learned yet to identify in the elves, Thranduil’s eyebrows drew a little more down than normal, lip curved in a softer scowl than the one he used on the dwarves. Bard knew he should be more nervous from that look than he was, but at that moment he was too tired of bizarre elvish outbursts to be worried about not interpreting them correctly. 

“What of my statement was unclear to you?” Thranduil asked coolly. 

Bard narrowed his eyes as his diplomacy argued with his basic instincts to ask what the name of Arda went through elves heads. Thranduil seemed even taller now, though somehow less imposing in his obviously displeased state. There was something here that Bard was missing, something important, something he was far too tired to deal with right now. 

He shrugged lightly, knowing already he was getting far too casual in his handling of the King of the Elves. “Er, I suppose not the statement itself but rather, what…made you think on it?” He asked, a quiet trepidation creeping up the back of his neck. “Am I nearer to death than I know?”

Thranduil regarded him with the smallest shift of his mouth, his scowl fading minutely back into his normally displeased glance. “Of course. All mortals are,” he answered with a finality that seemed to express that was the most obvious conclusion. 

The anxiety humming in Bard’s veins only increased, and suddenly he didn’t feel quite as cold with the winter wind against his back. No, he felt far too warm for no reasons he enjoyed. “I do not mean to be rude, my lord,” he began cautiously, hoping not to offend the Elvenking anymore than he could help, “but I do have three children to think of, and if you should know of anything that would take me from them sooner than I had expected, I would appreciate the warning so I could make arrangements.” Despite the useless panic building in him, Bard doubted Thranduil was actually ticking off the days until he died. Still, parenthood made it difficult not to worry. 

Thranduil’s scowl was back, now combined with Bard thought might perhaps be frustration. “That…is not what I meant to imply.” 

Bard blinked once, unsure if he had imagined the hesitation in Thranduil’s voice. It didn’t seem possible, that the unreasonably old and powerful being in front of him was uncertain enough to stumble through his words in front of Bard. Patience was the best method of dealing with elves, and Bard bit down on his tongue to hold himself in check as he gave Thranduil the time to complete his thought. 

Below them men grunted and huffed and moved stones and laid bricks and time crept by as Bard waited. 

“I simply meant,” Thranduil continued, his annoyance obvious through his bitten out words, “that when your very short life is complete, I will remember you fondly.” 

Tongue between his teeth and eyes narrowed slightly, Bard nodded, holding in every exasperated comment he wanted to make. “I…am honored you think so highly of me,” he finally managed, sounding no more honored than Thranduil did fond. Meeting Thranduil’s eyes, Bard felt the hesitant smile slide off of his face, and he wondered briefly if the word ‘fond’ meant something completely different to the elves. Something closer to, ‘would smash your head into a rock if I didn’t believe it would start a war’. 

Doing his best to swallow as subtly as he could, Bard straightened his shoulders slightly under the other king’s fierce gaze, trying not to let it irk him. “I will remember you fondly as well,” he added after the seconds ticked into a minute, the cold wind against their backs egging him on. 

Thranduil managed to look even more menacing for a moment, despite the lack of movement on his face. Around him his great mane of hair swept in the wind, and for a frightening moment Bard was reminded of stories his father used to tell. Stories of great cats the size of horses that lived in the distant mountains, waiting for travelers to get separated from their group. Bard felt suddenly too isolated, too far away from his human friends as he stood on the overlook next to the ice-cold king. 

His sudden rush of nerves only heightened the absurdity of the situation when Thranduil’s cheek twitched and his mouth curved down in the most genuine display of confusion Bard had yet to see an elf present. “When shall you remember me?” 

Bard faltered, shoulders slumping again as his fear was almost instantly forgotten, as were all of his speaking skills. “What?”

Thranduil turned more fully towards him, no longer casting a glance over his shoulder as he faced the human king. “You are mortal,” Thranduil stated, the confused tilt of his mouth still there and now accompanied by an eyebrow raised in what may have been concern. His tone was flat, and it seemed to Bard as if Thranduil might think him very stupid indeed. “When would you reflect fondly upon me, if you are to leave this world first?”

The nip in the air did nothing to cool the burn on Bard’s cheeks as he tried to quell his embarrassment. “I meant, that when you are not around, I will…think fondly of you.” It took all of the remaining strength Bard had to not close his eyes and hide his shame in his hands. When he had thought of the difficulties of taking up the throne of Dale, this was not one of the problems he had considered. As it was, determined to try to at least not make any more of a fool of himself, Bard swallowed again, tilting his chin in defiance as he tried to stand behind his asinine statement.

Thranduil had not moved. Bard wondered briefly if maybe his words had all been in his head, and out loud Thranduil had not heard them. It seemed he would have no such luck. 

“Do you often think fondly of me when I am not in your presence?”

Bard had seen much loss in his life, and many more hardships. He had suffered much and endured many trials. He had faced down a great dragon as it burned his home. This conversation, still, was one of the worst things that had ever happened to him. 

Unable to contain himself any longer he coughed into his sleeve, clearing his throat as he tried to think of a response. “Well, I would not say often. Though not that I have any ill thoughts towards you when you are not around, just…” Bard bit his tongue lightly, pulling himself together. “I am glad,” he stated finally, voice controlled, “to have you as an ally.” He turned his shoulder then, facing back over the ledge to look back over the progress of Dale as Thranduil stared him down. 

It was another minute before Thranduil finally turned back to his original position as well, and Bard felt he could breathe again. Dealing with the elves was certainly going to pose a challenge, though that he had known that early on. Interspecies communications had always been minimal during his time ferrying barrels, and had given him a false sense of security in his abilities. The best thing for him to do then was to back out gracefully, to remove himself and start over again with Thranduil again the next day. Or perhaps in a few days. 

“I-“

“Do you often think ill of me when I am around?” Thranduil’s tone left no question as to whether cutting Bard off had been an accident, something sharp in his voice slicing through Bard’s hopes of an easy retreat. 

“No, My Lord, that is not what I meant-“

“Then I should like to hear your explanation.” 

“And I should like to give you one, should you be willing to hear it,” he snapped.  
Bard had more than once wished the Elvenking quicker with his replies, and now it seemed he had gotten his wish in the harshest of ways. Bard had no time to breathe between sentences before Thranduil was cutting into him, demanding better answers. He felt his shoulders tensing and jaw tightening in agitation. Thranduil was older and more powerful, but Dale was Bard’s kingdom and Thranduil had no right to demand of him like a servant. 

“I often think highly of you and your people, and am happy for your continued help,” he bit out, trying to maintain his civility. “I meant to state more clearly that when you and your people return to your home, I shall remember your assistance with a full heart.”

“Are we to be banished once the repairs are completed?”

This was the most Bard had ever heard Thranduil speak, and found himself desperately wishing for him to shut up. “Of course not.” There was a vein in his neck he was certain was about to burst in his attempts to contain his anger. “I did not assume that your presence here would continue as heavily once Dale was more solid-“

“Do you not wish it to?” The annoyance that had been building in Thranduil’s easy tone was suddenly gone, replaced with something delicate and gentle that left Bard reeling. 

_What?_ Bard did not know the extent of elven power, but he was certain that any being with any sort of magic in them must have been able to feel the intensity of his thought. Taking a breath he tried once more. “My Lord, I-“

“I am not your Lord, Dragonslayer,” Thranduil interrupted with an abrupt harshness that in any lesser being Bard might have called a hiss. His stoic expression was once more destroyed as his eyebrows turned down in a scowl. 

To that particular statement, Bard was taken aback. There was a dull thud beginning to build behind his right eye and a different sort of exhaustion began to set in. “I did not mean to offend,” he countered gently, in a tone usually reserved for children. He felt it was reasonable, as he felt a bit like he was dealing with one. “What am I to call you, if not your honorific?” 

Elbows still on the ledge he glanced at Thranduil to find the Elvenking staring at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Do you not know my name, or is it simply too difficult on a man’s rough tongue to pronounce?” 

The insult was not one made out of ignorance and superiority, it was a barb meant to cut and Bard made no efforts to hide his annoyance as he glowered up at the elf before him. “A man’s tongue is not too rough to sound out the delicate names of elves, but I had assumed _Thranduil_ was a title reserved for your friends to call you, or perhaps whatever the elven equivalent of a friend is.” 

This was how it ended, Bard mused in his head, the alliance between men and elves, because both of their kings were too petty and childish and refused to let cultural misunderstandings be forgiven. Bard was going to have to tell the story differently when his people demanded to know what had happened. 

“Are we not friends?” Thranduil snapped, the line where his teeth met just visible between the scowl his lips had curved into as he glared at Bard. The image of that wild cat came back into his mind, but Bard felt no fear. 

“I have called you one,” Bard responded, no less heat in his voice but faltering slightly at the end in intensity. 

“That is not what I asked.” He had no memory of turning to face the Elvenking, nor of him turning to him, but their difference in height was abruptly apparent to him as he found his chin tilting to stare up at the elf. 

“Well,” Bard hesitated, still angry at the unwarranted insult but also still not fully understanding the fight, “You helped my people in our need, and you said you should think favorably of me when I pass, and I hope I have expressed the same. I…There are differences between our people, but I should like to call you a friend in the future.” 

“As should I,” Thranduil all but snarled, his shoulders twitching in a way that suggested he was clenching his hands together tightly behind his back. 

“Well, good, then,” Bard felt a bit like he was tripping over his words, uncertain of the ground beneath his feet as he tried to figure out what was happening. “Then, it would seem we are friends,” he finished uncertainly. Though he kept his head high, he felt the fight drain out of him, like a basin tipped suddenly on its side as everything that had felt so intensely a moment before rushed out all in one burst. “And I am glad to say it.” Letting out a quiet breath, one that he was certain Thranduil picked up on regardless, he leaned back against the ledge, forcing a tired and amiable smile on his face. 

Thranduil remained silent and motionless, his angular features dangerously sharp in the early morning light and his eyes hard as he followed Bard’s movements with an unblinking stare. Bard watched his own breaths turn into puffs of steam for a full minute before the elf finally blinked, his face barely shifting as he turned silently to stare out over Dale once more. Letting his eyes fall closed in silent victory, Bard sent out a thank you to the gods for what was by far the best outcome he could have expected from the exchange. He was relieved the effort of having to decide how to proceed as he heard the tap of someone approaching on the stairs. 

“Your highness?” 

Bard almost ignored the address, assuming the newcomer was asking for Thranduil’s attention. When the elf beside him did not move he realized his mistake. 

“Yes?” He turned quickly, feeling a twinge of guilt at having come across so rude. 

The young man standing at the top of the stairs was not instantly recognizable to him. His father’s name was Ren though, that much he knew. Ren was a good man, if a little unsteady with his drink. Bard was no better than him and yet his son was ducking his head with a deference that should be shown to royalty. Of which, Bard technically was. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” the young man insisted quickly, bowing down a little farther. “But, there’s a problem with the north wall. The men say they aren’t going to be able to fortify it until the north tower is done, and the north tower can’t be done because there’s too much damage to-“

Bard held up a hand to cut him off, the fondness in his smile made no less genuine by the exhaustion claiming his bones. “Let them know I’m on my way.” 

The young man nodded enthusiastically and turned so quickly down the stairs that he almost tripped. Bard’s paternal instincts had him moving to try to steady the boy, but he had all ready disappeared around the first turn and was out of sight. 

Bard brought his cold hands to his face, breathing a sigh into them as he mentally prepared himself for the day ahead. “It seems I am needed elsewhere,” he told Thranduil, that same smile stuck on his face as he turned to glance at the Elvenking. The other king had not moved his feet, but had turned to face Bard. Once more his expression was the same as when they had arrived, neutral and hostile somehow all at once. 

“It would seem so.” Thranduil took a step towards him, but with his unreasonable height Bard felt that he crossed half the overlook in the single stride. Suddenly they were face to face once again, Thranduil standing on the precipice of being just slightly too close for a normal conversation. The uncomfortable feeling of invasion Bard received from it was immediately added to an ever-growing list of strange things the elf gave him. 

“Yes, well, it is always good to see you,” Bard told him, lying only slightly. “I trust I will see you tomorrow when we begin work on the lower side,” he hesitated, lips parted as he considered his next move, “Thranduil.” To his credit, he barely stumbled over the foreign name, finding it infinitely more difficult to pronounce when not spitting it in annoyance. 

The change in Thranduil was subtle, but Bard couldn’t miss the way he straightened up, becoming somehow even taller, and the edge of his hard mouth softened ever so slightly. It was the greatest victory for Bard yet, and the smile on his face became less forced as he relaxed. 

“I was right,” Thranduil assured him unexpectedly. Bard knew him well enough to know better than to ask about what, simply inquired with a raised brow. It seemed Bard being relaxed was evidently not something Thranduil was satisfied with, as the elf tore immediately into their budding understanding of one another by leaning in close. Too close. Close enough that Bard knew this could not be something common for elves either as he felt Thranduil’s warm breath on his face. “Your tongue is rough, but it handles my name well, Bard.” 

In a flourish that was unique to Thranduil and Thranduil alone, he was gone, descending down the steps as he left Bard to consider the elf’s ridiculous mannerisms, and the growing heat in his own face. Blinking slowly, Bard tried to regain himself, uncertain about what had just transpired or what it meant to the elf – or possibly more importantly what it was supposed to mean to him- but he finally shook his head. 

The elves were strange creatures, and to dwell on them would do him no good. There was work to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried. This is very short and has literally no point, I just find these two hilarious and I love their relationship. Both in canon and what happens in my head. Thanks to everyone who held on for (almost) A YEAR to see this addition to the very (very very very) slowly growing collection. Hopefully the next installment will be more interesting and not take a year. 
> 
> As always, any grievances or concerns are welcome on [tumblr](http://admiral-phasma.tumblr.com/).


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